


365 days

by FemmeBrulee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Mild Smut, Separation, War, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FemmeBrulee/pseuds/FemmeBrulee
Summary: A year after Draco and Hermione are sent on separate wartime missions, only one of them has returned home. In the cheer of Christmas Day, Hermione feels the stinging absence of the man she has come to love. As the day wears on, she starts to fear that the devastating rumours are true.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 23
Kudos: 231
Collections: Wireless Festive Minifest 2019





	365 days

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story for the Wireless Festive Minifest and it's inspired by the song "I'll be home for Christmas." I think it's an absolutely beautiful song, written during the Second World War to honour soldiers who longed to be at home at Christmas time. What a perfect backdrop for a Dramione fic set during the war.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and if you do, please leave a review!
> 
> And last but not least, a BIG thank you to my wonderful betas Chronicler of Caesura and R. Scarlett for their meticulous feedback! Merry Christmas everyone!

**364 days and 4 hours**

She’s a day early. 

The house looks exactly the same as when she had left it. A sheet of fresh unbroken snow covers everything that surrounds the house, from the grass and weeds that grew so wildly in the summer to the twisting pebblestone paths straying deep into the forest. A wreath woven through with small gold lights hangs over the front door.

It would look like Christmas, if not for the small matter of war.

She stands on the front steps, her heart about to escape her chest. An eternity of endings to this story stretches out before her in the brief moment of hesitation before she knocks.

“Password?” a familiar deep voice calls from inside.

“Wiggentree and asphodel.”

“What were my first words to you when we arrived in this house?”

“A bit spare, but we’ll give it life.”

A series of clicks and the door cracks open.

“Welcome home, Hermione.”

“Thank you, Kingsley. It’s good to be back.” 

Kingsley doesn’t look like he’s been able to sleep all night. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot. Yet he still manages to cut a grand figure in magnificent navy blue robes. McGonagall steps out from behind him, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and shadows circling her eyes.

“So good to see you again, Hermione. And right on time too,” she smiles tiredly.

“You’ll have all the time you need to rest after you give us a full report,” Kingsley states firmly, leading her briskly down to meeting room in the basement. “The others are looking forward to having you back.”

Her heart flutters at this. It had been so long and she had missed them all so much.

She begins her report when they are all seated in the meeting room. She tells them about the intelligence she has gathered, the locations and details of every single facility the Death Eaters were using for illicit experiments, and the few left standing after her carefully planned raids. 

“You’ve done a remarkable job, Hermione,” Kingsley tells her when she is done. “We’ll start drawing up strategies for infiltrating the remaining facilities when the others return.”

She takes the chance, because her chest is aching from raw, unabating dread.

“So they haven’t returned? The Bristol unit?”

Kingsley and McGonagall exchange a silent glance. Kingsley opens his mouth to say something, but McGonagall speaks first.

“They will. I remain confident.”

The way she says it makes something clench in Hermione’s chest.

“Did something happen—”

“We shall wait and see. We will not fall prey to meaningless speculation.”

Hermione nods, willing herself hard to remain impassive, professional. There was something they were not telling her.

She thanks them and excuses herself, heading straight for her bedroom.

***

_ Her mouth tastes of ash and blood. _

_ The air is choked with smoke and the screams of the wounded. A jet of green light shoots past her ear and it is so hot she can feel her cheek burning in its wake. She dodges another jet of green light and rolls behind a pile of rubble. She peers around it, and spots them in the firefight, the Carrows, sneering through broken teeth and bloodied lips. _

_ She shakes with fury, thinking of the people they had so mercilessly tortured and killed, innocent children among them. They were among the worst of the Death Eaters, taking sick pleasure in the suffering of their most defenceless victims. The rage blinds her until all she can feel is the pounding of her own blood in her ears.  _

_ She jumps over the wall and runs toward them, her wand pointed straight at the heart of the Carrow closest to her  _ — _ Amycus. But it doesn’t matter which one she will kill first. His eyes widen when he spots her and a bloody grin splits his face as he raises his own wand in retaliation. _

_ She opens her mouth to cast, but an arm wraps itself around her waist and yanks her roughly behind a stone wall. _

_ She yells and attempts to break the assailants nose with her elbow, but he pins her arms to the wall. _

_ “The fuck do you think you’re doing, Granger?” _

_ “Malfoy,” she spits. “I was going to kill the Carrows.” _

_ “And blow this entire fucking mission?” There is blood dripping from a deep cut on his forehead and his eyes are the colour of a storm. _

_ “I know what the plan is, but they were open!” She struggles against him but he tightens his grip on her arms. _

_ “You know they were counting on one of us to do that? They know they’re dealing with Potter and his stupid, bull-headed Gryffindor friends!” _

_ She grimaces. “I only saw an opportunity _ — _ ” _

_ “If you die, Granger, we’ll have lost our best fucking chance of winning this bloody war.” He is so close that she can feel the heat of his words on her neck. _

_ Something twists in her stomach. “I would not have died _ — _ ” _

_ Another scream. One of their own. She wrenches herself from his grasp as he twists toward the source of the noise. _

_ “Just stick to the bloody plan, Granger,” he rushes out and takes off toward the thick of the battle. _

***

**364 days and 5 hours**

Ginny is waiting for her in the hallway, her long red hair falling down her back. 

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you again,” Ginny whispers as Hermione steps into her waiting arms. 

“Me too. I’m honestly relieved to have made it back in one piece.”

“Like that was ever in question,” Ginny smiles, a tear sliding down her cheek.

“How have you all been? McGonagall and Kingsley were so strict about not corresponding with any of you.”

“We’ve been holding up,” Ginny says as they both make their way up the winding stairway to the bedrooms. “There was a fight in September. We managed to take out twelve, including Rodolphus Lestrange.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” Hermione nods, but doesn’t mention she also knows that the Patil sisters had been among the casualties. She’d cried herself to sleep when she received McGonagall’s message.

“Has there…has there been any word from Bristol?” Hermione asks.

Ginny is silent for a moment. “There was a message last week.”

Hermione tries to pretend the air hasn’t caught in her throat.

“And? Are they alright?”

“Hermione.” Ginny stops in front of Hermione’s bedroom door. “You were seeing him, weren’t you?”

Hermione blinks, a little stunned by this sudden revelation.

“Seeing who?”

“Malfoy.”

“I…” Hermione starts to say, her mind scrambling for the right words, but the knowing look on Ginny’s face tells her it is pointless.

Ginny sighs, staring resolutely at the floorboards before meeting Hermione’s eyes again.

“There was an explosion. Unconfirmed reports are coming in that nobody survived it.”

***

_ The pain in her side is blinding. She groans and doubles over as another wave wracks her body. _

_ “Just a bit further, Granger. I need to get you to the sofa.” _

_ Her arm is slung over a firm pair of shoulders and she’s surprised that it’s him, but then her thoughts are blotted out by the pain. _

_ “Here, lie down.” She feels herself being lowered onto something soft. A pillow, smelling faintly of cologne and peppermint, is tucked behind her head. _

_ “Okay, now let’s have a look,” he says, slowly lifting the bottom of her shirt. She can hear it peeling wetly back from her skin and she knows she must be soaked in blood. _

_ He hisses through his teeth.  _

_ “What happened?” _

_ She swallows. “A curse… to poison the blood…” _

_ “Right, I’m going to numb the area first.” _

_ She hears him cast a spell, but it does little to alleviate the pain. Whoever cast this spell wanted its victim to suffer. _

_ “Use… use the gra...the gra…” she tries to say as she watches him rummage furiously through the medicine cabinets. _

_ “The graphorn reduction, yes.” _

_ “And the be _ — _ ” _

_ “Bezoar and wormwood serum. How are you still this insufferable while bleeding half to death?” _

_ She almost scoffs. He returns to kneel by her side with the vials, one hand gently lifting her head from the pillow. _

_ “Drink this,” he says softly as he tilts the first vial between her lips, followed by the second. She cringes as the acrid liquids burn their way down her throat. _

_ “You should feel it starting to take effect very soon,” he says, watching her intently. “Keep your eyes open, Granger. I still need to close the wound.” _

_ The room starts to spin slowly as she nods her head. She stares at a watermark on the ceiling, gritting her teeth in anticipation of the pain. She’s seen healers perform magical suturing and knows just how horribly wrong it can go if not performed with the utmost precision. _

_ She almost cries out when she feels his hand brace gently against her hip, his fingers fanning out against her bare skin as he draws in a steady breath. A jolt of pain shoots through her side as he begins the spellwork. Her body tenses, and his grip on her waist tightens as if in response. _

_ His voice is low and smooth as he utters the spells and she lets the rhythm of his words fall gently against her. His articulation is perfect, his pace keeping time with the steady pulse of her own blood.  _

_ When she looks at him, his eyes are narrowed in a controlled, elegant sort of intensity and his blond hair is falling carelessly over his brow. His lips are moving almost soundlessly. _

_ She feels his thumb brush lightly against her waist. _

_ She doesn’t remember when the pain went away. _

***

**364 days and 14 hours**

She wakes to a view of snow-capped trees, the aroma of hot chocolate and music crackling out of an old wireless radio. The ringing mood of Christmastime swells in her heart but it is brief and dissipates like steam in cold air when she remembers he is not here.

There are gifts by the foot of her bed. She must have missed them in the night. A volume of books by her favourite author, wrapped in a bright red ribbon. A butterbeer-scented candle. A burgundy-coloured wool scarf. A swan-feather quill from Scrivenshaft’s. 

Nobody knew for sure if she would make it back alive, and they had bought her presents anyway.

She wraps the scarf around her neck and makes her way downstairs, toward the sound of laughter and clinking silverware.

She enters the kitchen and all the faces she has not seen in a year turn toward her, glowing with warmth and a fierce, vindicated joy. The exuberance in the room reaches a pitch as she is pulled into tight hugs, slapped on the back, lifted off her feet and spun round.

Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly, Arthur, George, Charlie, Bill, Fleur, McGonagall, Kinglsey, and several new recruits into the Order who she has not yet met. An odd, mismatched sort of group, but then again, Hermione doesn’t know family any other way.

“We saved some of the tree ornaments for you, dear,” Molly says, pulling a large wooden box from a shelf and handing it to Hermione. 

“All mum’s idea,” mutters Ron with a smile. “Her way of telling herself you’d be back safe.”

In the box were several red and gold baubles, a Christmas angel, and her own name, carved into a small block of cherry wood. 

The tree out in the living room is huge, bending a little against the ceiling, and still manages to look crowded with ornaments. Hermione hangs her name plate near Harry’s, Ron’s and Ginny’s. It reminds her of a certain old clock in the Burrow, a sign that all of Molly and Arthur’s children were together and safe.

**364 days and 18 hours**

For a moment, just for a moment, she forgets the war. 

The kitchen table heaves under the weight of all the food. Roast pheasant and potatoes, beef wellington and pork sausages, honey-glazed ham and parsnips and carrots, brown gravy and cranberry sauce, plum pudding, mince pies, cakes and trifle, and lots and lots of mulled wine. Everyone is gathered around the spread and the thrilled, eager sounds of conversation and laughter rise above the tinny music sputtering out of the old wireless.

She belly-laughs for the first time in months, her arm slung around Harry’s shoulders. George is doing a remarkably good impression of Ginny and it has everyone crying with laughter. Even McGonagall cracks a smile. It isn’t until this moment that Hermione realises how dearly she has missed her friends.

The song on the radio ends and is followed by a brief announcement. No one really seems to hear it, and it doesn’t appear like they want to, at least not now. She hears the words “blast” and “Bristol” and her heart jumps to her throat, but then another song begins to play, and the moment is gone.

***

_ “What does loyalty mean to you?” he asks her one evening as they sit together on the porch steps.  _

_ She twirls her wand thoughtfully in her hand. “Being willing to do anything for a cause.” _

_ “Even die?” _

_ “Of course,” she nods. “Especially that.” _

_ “But why?” he asks, turning toward her. _

_ “Well,” she says, staring into the tall weeds. “Because sometimes a cause is bigger than one person. And if it means someone has to die to advance it, then it has to be done.” _

_ He doesn’t stop looking at her, and when she meets his eyes she is surprised by the intensity in them. _

_ “What if the cause is a bad one?” _

_ She pauses. “That...still makes a person loyal.” _

_ “And is that something you admire in people,” he asks frowning. “Loyalty?” _

_ “I _ — _ well _ — _ not always, I guess,” she sighs, raising her eyes up toward the darkening sky. “I never said loyalty makes a good person.” _

_ “Then it’s funny, isn’t it?” he says, leaning back on his elbows. “How we judge a person’s goodness based on how loyal they are?” _

_ She sighs, feeling her stomach sink. _

_ “Harry and Ron just need more time to get used to you being here. That’s all.” _

_ “It’s been months, Granger. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped feeling responsible for them?” _

_ “That is not true,” she says, but her words only scatter like loose leaves in the evening air.  _

_ He doesn’t respond, and maybe he doesn’t need to.  _

_ Draco Malfoy isn’t a man of many words, and it is often in his silences that she learns the most about him, and about herself. And tonight, as they both watch a pale moon rise above the treetops, Hermione realises that sometimes it takes the most courage to break allegiances when you have everything to lose.  _

***

**364 days and 21 hours**

She finds McGonagall sitting alone in the study, a mug of hot chocolate clasped firmly between her hands. Wisps of grey hair escape her bun and for the first time that Hermione can remember, the woman looks aged and tired.

They need only look at each other to understand.

“There was indeed an explosion last week in Bristol,” McGonagall says solemnly, as a firecracker goes off on the front lawn to the sound of cheers and minor applause.

“The old church that housed the entire unit was razed to the ground,” her voice trembles and cracks. “All of them were found dead.”

Someone turns up the music outside and Hermione can hear people starting to sing and dance.

The grief wouldn’t hit her until hours later, Hermione knew. She’d walk numbly through the house, perhaps join her friends in a dance or two, and then excuse herself saying she really needed to get some sleep. And then in bed, she’d remember his face, his voice, the look in his eyes when he touched her face, and she would barely be able to breathe for the grief.

***

_ “A year?” he asks coolly, but there is the barest crack in his voice. _

_ “Precisely, Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall responds. “We believe one year will be sufficient for both teams to carry out the planned tasks. You are expected to return no sooner nor later than that.” _

_ “And there is to be no correspondence in the meantime?” _

_ “We cannot risk jeopardizing the operation,” McGonagall says sternly. “Naturally, all Order members will be informed. You will use the Protean Charm for covert communication with only Kingsley and myself once a month. I trust you both are quite familiar with the method?” _

_ “Yes,” Hermione answers quietly, but Malfoy only seethes next to her. _

_ “Good. Now, if there are no further questions,” McGonagall continues in a clipped, efficient voice. “You have an hour to prepare your things before transportation is arranged to your respective posts. Mr. Malfoy, Severus will meet you at the liaison point in Bristol. Miss Granger, you shall be received by Kingsley in Carlisle.” _

_ She doesn’t remember leaving McGonagall’s study, nor entering her own bedroom to pack a year’s worth of things into a bag. She doesn’t remember hastily scribbling notes to her friends, the tears caught somewhere in her throat. _

_ She only remembers the knock on her door and opening it to find him standing there, staring at her like he is glass on the precipice of shattering. _

_ They open their mouths to speak, but with less than an hour to go before they are separated for an entire year, the words don’t come easily. _

_ His fingers are cold when they brush her cheek for the first time, tracing gently along her ear as he tucks back a stray curl. She feels his fingers thread slowly through her hair, pressing her face closer to his. _

_ His lips are soft against her own, and she breathes in his closeness, his presence so firm and solid and real before her. She deepens the kiss then, sliding her hands up the front of his shirt until her fingers begin to curl into the material. _

_ Using one leg to swing the door shut behind him, he steps forward into the room. His hands drop to her sides, slipping under the hem of her shirt to skim along her waist, and she moans softly at the contact. _

_ It is a thing that rises exponentially, every move and every touch answered with something faster, something fiercer. She kisses along his jaw before taking his bottom lip between her teeth, her fingers now rapidly undoing the buttons of his shirt. His hands under her shirt move up to her breasts, his thumbs slipping beneath her bra to tease at her nipples. _

_ When his mouth latches onto the soft skin of her neck she wonders if she should stop him, stop all of this before leaving will become even more unbearable than before. But when her back hits the wall, she knows they’re way past the point of stopping, because anything could happen in the next year, and all they had was this moment. _

_ A part of her wishes they could take it slow, wishes she could learn him and know him and feel the deepest part of every sensation he is stirring up inside her. But war has a tendency to twist and warp time and sometimes people are left with minutes to communicate an entire lifetime. _

_ She wants to remember him just like this, undone and utterly surrendered to a feeling neither of them can name. She wants to remember the way he is looking at her, the way her heart is thundering in her chest, the way this wave builds and crests and breaks apart so perfectly within her. _

_ “We’ll wait for each other, alright?” he tells her afterward, his chest rising and falling fast against hers. “Whoever comes back first, we’ll wait for the other one. Outside, on the porch.” _

_ She nods and the tears finally fall because they have only just found each other.  _

***

**365 days**

_ Outside, on the porch.  _

She shivers slightly despite being bundled up in a thick coat and scarf. Her boots crunch against the snow, which has reached the top step of the porch.

The time limit has passed. They were told to return in exactly one year, no sooner nor later. Yet, she waits, because that’s what they promised each other. She waits.

The porch light gleams gold against the snow and the garlands strung across the railing. Tomorrow, all the decorations would be packed up into boxes and life would go back to what it was before. Planning. Fighting. Surviving. 

There would be a way to go on without him, and she’d find it and live with it like it was an indelible scar. Maybe not today, nor tomorrow, but she’d find it someday. Because that’s who she is.

She’s so tired that she only half-registers the click of the door and the sound of weary footfalls behind her. She might have jumped at the sound and pulled her wand out, but for some reason she doesn’t.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

He looks embattled. His clothes are dirty and torn, his hair is matted and soft stubble covers his jaw. 

There is a strange, crumbling sort of look in his eyes, like he hasn’t been able to breathe properly until now.

She knows she ought to be on guard, probably ask him a security question, but a quiet knowledge burns fiercely in her chest.

“There were reports about a blast,” she stammers, taking in the sight of him. “They all said— I thought you—”

“There was,” he groans softly, sinking down onto the step beside her. “But I wasn’t in the building when it happened. When I came back and saw what they’d done, I hid, made them all believe I was dead.”

“So… so everyone else is really...”

He nods, his lips pressed tightly together.

“But you could have sent us something…a sign or—”

“You know I couldn’t risk that,” he replies, shaking his head. “They might have been using a trace.”

She can only stare at him now, glassy-eyed and slightly dizzy. There is so much more she wants to know, but all that matters is he’s here. He’s here, like he said he would be.

“When did you get back?” he asks, raising a hand to gently stroke her hair.

“Early yesterday morning.”

“A whole day early,” he smirks, cocking an eyebrow. “You’ve beat me again, Granger.”

He takes her hand and smiles at her and she is convinced in this moment that she has not seen anything quite so beautiful. 

She scoots closer to him and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, and the war is lost to a quiet winter’s night for just a little longer.

***

  
  
  



End file.
